


Flesh and Blood and Camouflage

by picturestoproveit



Series: A Wound Across My Memory [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Language, Mild breath play, Mystery, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Pregnant Sex, Series 4 Fix-It, Series 4 Non-Compliant, Sexual Content, TAB Non-Compliant, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you miss me?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part three of the series. It's not necessary to read "Flicker From View", but if you skip "Numbers and Figures", you may be a little lost.

I went on the search for something real

Traded what I know for how I feel

But the ceiling and the walls collapsed

Upon the darkness I was trapped

And as the last of breath was drawn from me

Light broke in and brought me to my feet

~ The Avett Brothers, _February Seven_

* * *

Molly leaned over the basin, staring at the tap, cold water flowing between her fingers as she swallowed thick, bilious strings of her own saliva. Beyond the bathroom door, conversation hummed, keystrokes clicked, papers rustled.

She took a deep breath and raised her head, bleakly appraising her reflection: red eyes, pale skin, runny nose, swollen cheeks. The face of a woman who had spent more time in the past three days curled up on the floor of the loo than she had in a bed.

She leaned down and splashed the water on her face, the cool dash to her skin soothing her nausea, however fleetingly.  Memories from the previous days remained in the forefront of her mind: unbearable silences and cold words, amplified by a barely contained undercurrent of panic.

Molly shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut, grasping the edge of the basin with white knuckles, willing herself not to cry.  It had been three days since she had awoken from her fitful doze on the settee to find Sherlock sitting at the tiny kitchen table, examining the apple-shaped rattle with his spyglass.

She hadn’t heard him enter.  She hadn’t even expected to see him again, though a tiny part of her had held out hope that she would. She had scrambled to a seated position in a fog, heart in her throat, alternately elated and terrified and unsure of where she should even _begin_ , before she was felled by his words.

 

_“You opened this package without having someone examine it first? How could you be so stupid?”_

 

She laughed presently, a hollow, bitter sound that died in her throat,  bringing with it a fresh wave of nausea.

 _Because, really, wasn’t_ that _the million dollar question?_  
  
She gathered herself the best she could and quietly exited the bathroom.  Only John looked up from the small kitchen table, offering her a sympathetic smile. Sherlock and Mycroft remained engrossed in conversation, the latter flipping through endless reams of computer paper while the former typed furiously on the laptop.

“Tea’s on, Molly, if you’d like some,” John offered. Molly gave him a tight smile and a short nod as she made her way toward the stovetop. She lifted the steaming kettle and began pouring the hot water into a mug, feeling the queasiness beginning to swirl in her stomach again.  She reached for the box of tea on the counter, plucking a bag of earl grey from the container.

"The decaffeinated tea bags are in the left hand cupboard.”

Molly froze, the tea bag threaded through her fingers and hovering over her mug.  She glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock, who was still focusing all of his attention on the computer screen in front of him and giving no indication that he had actually just spoken to her.

“I need caffeine,” she said tersely, turning back towards the counter and dropping the tea bag into the mug with a flourish. “If I’m going to be throwing up every ten minutes, I’d like to do it without a headache.”

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock muttered. “As long as you realize that excessive caffeine intake is associated with first trimester miscarriage.”

Molly grimaced as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “And who says I plan on keeping the pregnancy?” she snapped.

Behind her, the room stilled.  Mycroft cleared his throat lightly. John was silent, though she imagined he was probably staring at some random corner of the cottage with that quasi-permanent look of discomfort on his face.

“Of course you’re keeping it,” Sherlock retorted. “You walk around all day and night protectively cradling your abdomen. Hardly the gesture of a woman thinking of terminating a pregnancy.”

“Sherlock,” John hissed.  Molly tossed the spoon into the basin, the metallic clang echoing through the thickened air of the cottage. “Its fine, John,” she said a smoothly as possible. She turned and faced the three men at the table.

“I want my cat,” Molly said roughly.

She finally had everyone’s attention. John continued to regard her with an expression of pained sympathy. Mycroft considered her curiously, his lips pursed into a thin line. Sherlock just stared at her with a look of mild confusion, as if he hadn’t been aware of her presence in the kitchen until that very moment.

“Miss Hooper, I can assure you that your cat is receiving the best care a feline could ever hope to have,” Mycroft said smoothly, with only the faintest hint of annoyance.

“I don’t care. I want my cat, now,” Molly snapped.

John cleared his throat. “Um,yeah. Of course you do,” he said. “I can bring him back here tomorrow, if you want, I’m –“

“No,” Sherlock told him sharply. “I can’t risk having anyone follow you back here from London, especially not over some stupid cat.”

Molly scarcely registered that she had thrown her mug against the wall until the sound of shattering porcelain exploded through the tiny safe house.

“No!” she said loudly, her voice cracking. “Sherlock Holmes, if you’re going to hold me hostage here, then you are going to bring me my Toby RIGHT NOW. I need someone to talk to, and someone to comfort me, because it’s pretty clear that you aren’t interested in doing either of those things!”

John stood. “Yup, I think it’s time we head out, Mycroft,” he said, grabbing the umbrella that was propped against the counter and handing it to the elder Holmes.

“Indeed,” Mycroft responded readily, rising to his feet and buttoning his jacket. He gave Molly another thin smile. “You’ll have your cat by tomorrow morning, Miss Hooper,” he said, nodding curtly as he headed for the door.

John stepped forward and swept his arms around Molly’s shoulders. “I’ll bring Mary by tomorrow, too,” he whispered, squeezing her gently. “Her presence won’t endanger you in any way. I don’t give a fuck _what_ he says.”

Molly smiled sadly against John’s shoulder. “I know you don’t,” she replied with a small laugh. John pulled back and placed a kiss on her forehead. “It’s going to be okay,” he said as convincingly as he could manage. 

John released her and turned toward Sherlock. “So help me god, Sherlock, you better fix this,” he hissed, glaring at his former flat mate, rage simmering just beneath the surface of his quiet tone.

Sherlock had apparently taken the wiser route by choosing to remain silent, keeping his mouth pressed into thin line as he stared at Molly. John sighed and shot Molly one last pitying glance before exiting the cottage, closing the door behind him with a soft _click_.

Molly tapped her foot. “Say something,” she snapped, pulling her hands inside the sleeves of her jumper and hugging her chest protectively, a pitiful attempt at giving herself the comfort she craved so desperately.

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, took a short breath, and immediately closed it again. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, never shifting his gaze from her face.

Molly huffed. “ _Say something,”_ she repeated, this time more of a plea than a demand. “Anything! Tell me the failure rate of the birth control pill! Tell me about what a shitty father you think you’re going to be!” she continued, her pitch beginning to take on a slightly hysterical quality. “Tell me again how STUPID I am!”

Tears began rolling down her face, much to her chagrin, but really, it was only a matter of time. The fact that she hadn’t shed a single tear in the past three days was nothing short of a minor miracle. “Tell me you don’t want anything to do with me,” she sobbed, clawing at the shoulders of her jumper, struggling to hold herself together. “Tell me you don’t want this baby. Just…tell me _something._ TALK TO ME. PLEASE,” she begged. “ _Please.”_

Pain flickered behind his eyes. He cleared his throat softly. “Molly,” he whispered, “I –“

His mobile text alert interrupted loudly, the vibration of the ring moving the phone a few centimeters across the surface of the table. He instinctually grabbed for the mobile, taking his eyes of Molly momentarily.

She was gone before he even had a chance to read the message on his screen, slamming the door to the tiny bedroom and flinging herself onto the mattress gracelessly.

He had tried to warn her, hadn’t he? Telling her that loving him brought people nothing but pain. And she told him she didn’t care.

_“Yes, you might hurt me,” she had said, so convincingly (foolishly).”But you cannot break me.”_

Molly clutched her abdomen, the living proof of her fragility resting beneath her splayed fingers, and wept.

_…how could you be so stupid?_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be porn. Porn with feelings.

It was clear by the fading light that Molly had managed to fall asleep, likely for several hours, judging from the deep grays and blues filtering through the small window. She had barely blinked her eyes open when she was greeted by a familiar softness against her chin, accompanied by an enthusiastic rumble of purring.

“Hi, baby,” she murmured, scratching Toby’s downy cheek with her fingertips. The feline nuzzled her hand happily before flopping down beside his mistress, curling against her belly and kneading the checkered duvet with enthusiastic vigor.

Molly smoothed her hand over Toby’s striped fur, her motions slow and calming. “That was fast,” she said aloud, choosing to remain on her side rather than face the second presence in the room.

“One of Mycroft’s men brought him here,” Sherlock answered from the corner. “About an hour ago.” Molly listened as his footsteps approached the bed, and felt the mattress dip behind her as he sat down carefully. “Didn’t bring a litter box, though,” he said, irritated. “He’s being reassigned to Serbia as we speak.”

“That’s not funny,” Molly said softly, scratching the cat’s belly gently. “Don’t make jokes, Sherlock,” she added, the barest hint of mockery in her words.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he murmured. She listened as he exhaled deeply. “I can’t say I’ve ever been in this particular situation before,” he began, somewhat haltingly.

“Nor can I,” Molly said pointedly. “It’s not every day that I find out I’m pregnant, let alone getting the news from my supposedly dead ex-boyfriend.”

“ _Definitely_ dead,” Sherlock corrected her. “You handled the body, Molly. You know it was him.”

Molly sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she said sadly. Toby tipped his head backward and gave the tip of her nose a reassuring lick. She smiled in spite of herself. “So who is it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said flatly. “But it’s someone who has intimate knowledge of the inner workings of Moriarty’s mind.”

“And someone who has intimate knowledge of the inner workings of my uterus, apparently,” Molly muttered, nuzzling her face against Toby’s back. The air in the room was thick and still, and she could practically see Sherlock’s face as he contemplated how he should proceed.

A good minute passed before she felt him move. The mattress creaked and dipped once more, as Sherlock carefully stretched his body out to lie beside her. Toby, clearly offended by the idea of a third occupant on the small bed, hopped down to the floor and stalked out of the room, the very picture of feline indignation.

“You are far too intelligent and practical to believe that the dead can rise,” Sherlock countered softly. He was careful not to touch her, but Molly could still feel the heat of his body against her back. “And you’re too good at your job to be fooled by a decoy body,” he continued, his breath warm against her neck. Molly shivered as familiar heat began to slowly uncoil in her belly, and she silently cursed. It seemed no matter the circumstances, part of her would always remain under the spell of Sherlock Holmes. Even in the midst of devastating emotional turmoil- all of it caused by _him,_ no less - her body responded to his physical presence, and she couldn’t help but feel disgusted at herself. Disgusted and utterly defeated.

And - _goddamn it_ \- really, _really_ desperate for him to touch her.

Molly shifted slightly, drawing her knees up in an attempt to relieve the heaviness in her groin. The rational part of her, the part that was angry and hurting beyond belief, hoped that Sherlock wasn’t picking up on the subtle changes in her breathing, the goosebumps on her arms and neck, or the desperate way she was clenching her thighs together. The other part of her wanted him to slip his hand down the back of her pants and bring her the release her body was so suddenly demanding.

Sherlock stilled behind her, and _fuck it all,_ he knew. Of course he knew. Molly squeezed her eyes shut and cursed at herself again, before rolling onto her back to face him.

“Okay, I agree with that assessment, “ she said as evenly as she could, staring into those impossibly blue eyes and doing her best to ignore the steady throb between her thighs. “So that leaves us with the whole of England as potential suspects,” she continued, lowering her gaze to his throat, watching his pulse bound. His breathing quickened, ever so slightly, as Molly shifted her weight a bit, her arm inadvertently brushing up against his abdomen. “Should be easy enough to solve,” she murmured, resting her hand against his hip.

“Molly…” Sherlock began, before she cut him off. “Shut up,” she said softly. She traced the seam of his pocket with the tip of her index finger, reminiscent of the way he had teased the zip on her pants all those weeks ago. She had made her decision – she was going to give in to her body’s demands, and she didn’t need him to open his mouth and ruin the moment. “I am still so mad at you, “ she whispered. “And I’m not ready to forgive you. I’m not sure if I even _can_ forgive you.” She glanced upward, catching the pain and remorse on his face. “But right now, I need you.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said quickly. He cleared his throat as he watched her fingers creep upwards toward the button of his trousers. “What…um…what _exactly_ do you mean when you say that?” he questioned, suddenly sounding very unsure of himself. “Do you mean you need me…emotionally? Or…?” His question trailed off as she slowly pressed her palm against the growing bulge in his pants. He sucked in a sharp breath, suppressing a groan as she wrapped her fingers around his clothed erection.

“I’ve had enough of emotions for one day,” Molly replied. “Do you really need me to spell this out for you?” she continued, stroking him through his trousers, feeling him get harder and harder by the second.

“No, I don’t suppose I do, “ Sherlock managed to grind out, between panting breaths. “I just…are you sure this is a good idea?” he inquired, closing his eyes and groaning softly, pushing his hips toward her hand as she continued her ministrations.

“Nothing is a good idea anymore,” Molly answered bitterly. “But the way I see it, it really can’t get any worse.” She tipped her face up to nip at his throat. “So please stop asking stupid questions and put your hands on me. _Now._ ”

Sherlock obliged, cupping her breast with his hand as he dipped down to capture her lips in a searing fashion. Molly returned the kiss with an equal amount of fervor, sweeping her tongue against his, pulling back to catch his bottom lip between her teeth. She took no precautions in being gentle, as evidenced by the taste of blood in her mouth. Was it her blood or his? Did it even matter?

Molly gasped and fought to catch her breath as Sherlock pressed his mouth to the smooth column of her throat, trailing his tongue against the sensitive skin. His fingers were scrambling at her pyjama bottoms, and she used her free hand to help him push the elastic waistband down.

His fingers were inside of her before her pants were even at mid-thigh. Molly moaned loudly, tossing her head back against her pillow as curled his fingers expertly, stroking her from the inside, collecting her wetness before dragging his fingers up and down her slit. She bucked her hips against his hand as he moved to her clit, circling the sensitive flesh with the tip of his finger, and within seconds, she was coming loudly, overwhelming sensations rolling over her like a violent storm.

She scarcely had time to come to her senses before he was on top of her, his clothing removed in record time. He peeled the remaining garments from her sweaty figure until she was laid completely bare before him.

She opened her legs and he entered her with one smooth motion, stilling for a brief moment and gazing down at her with a look that was equal parts ecstasy and remorse. He looked like he was about to say something, and Molly reached for his face with both hands and pulled him down to her mouth once more, effectively silencing him with her lips and tongue. She pulled back just enough to catch his eyes. “Don’t talk,” she warned, her voice hoarse and ragged.

He nodded silently, and then began to move slowly. His thrusts were gentle, careful, tentative, and it took no time at all for Molly to practically growl in frustration.

“You aren’t going to hurt the baby for Chrissakes,” she hissed, grabbing his arse with both hands and pulling him down sharply. “Get over yourself and fuck me like you mean it.”

Well, that did the trick. He made a noise like the wind had been knocked out of him, and promptly grabbed her hips and tilted them off the bed. He leaned back on his knees as Molly wrapped her ankles around his neck as he began to thrust in earnest, snapping his hips back and forth at a relentless pace.

 Molly gasped and moaned loudly, rolling her nipples between her fingers as she squeezed her ankles tighter against the side of his neck. Visions of choking him out with nothing more than the power of her leg muscles briefly entered her mind, and she wondered if the baby was turning her into either a homicidal lunatic or someone interested in breath play. Either way, it was definitely out of character and getting her wetter than she thought was physically possible.

She decided it was the latter. She didn’t really want to kill him, obviously, though she didn’t think anyone would really blame her at this point.

She squeezed tighter.

He winced slightly at the increased pressure, but didn’t falter – on the contrary, it seemed to excite him more. He gripped her hips tightly and pulled them forward, slamming her pussy onto his cock over and over, his face red and breathing strangled. Molly groaned out encouragement ( _harder, faster, more more more)_ , and moved one hand down to her clit, rubbing furiously.

“Come with me,” she gasped, and Sherlock needed no other inspiration. He slid his hands up her legs and gripped her thighs, just below her knees, and groaned out his completion, spilling his seed deep inside of her just as she reached her own peak. Her cunt clenched tightly around his cock, and she wailed as her second orgasm burned through her core, rippling up her belly and sending pulse after pulse of pure pleasure to every nerve, every muscle fiber ( _every fucking cell)_ in her body.

After several moments of tense bliss, her limbs finally went limp and she exhaled unsteadily. Sherlock carefully removed her legs from around his neck and slowly lowered them until they were resting on either side of his knees. He leaned down carefully, more than a little shaky himself, and rested his head on her quivering abdomen.

Molly reached down on instinct to card her fingers through his dark curls. They stayed in that position for quite awhile, their quiet breathing barely audible in the silence of the tiny bedroom.

“Why did you shut me out?” she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She continued to rake her fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp with her blunt nails, and waited for an answer that she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

She could feel him tense up, a palpable twitch of his face against the sensitive skin of her belly. “I have no excuse,” he replied softly, his low timbre muffled against her soft flesh. “Everything just happened so fast…in three days time I went from a dead man walking to an expectant father, and I resorted to my old defenses.”

He lifted his head and held her gaze, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Please forgive me,” he asked simply. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I want this. You. The baby. Or if you don’t want the baby, that’s okay too,” he added in a rush. “You are my priority. You always were. Every second I’ve spent trying to unravel this Moriarty mystery has been for you. I just…didn’t articulate that very well.” He smiled sadly. “Understatement, I know.”

Molly’s cheeks were damp with tears that she hadn’t even realized she’d cried. She sniffled quietly and swiped her wet face with her free hand, the other still busy stroking his hair.

“I forgive you,” she said softly. “But I don’t know how much more forgiveness I have left in me.” She met his eyes, watching him as he exhaled slowly. “Do you understand?” she continued, her voice quiet but strong. “Because it’s not just about me anymore.” She glanced pointedly at her belly. “I refuse to offer forgiveness on this baby’s behalf.”

Sherlock nodded and swallowed deeply. “Understood,” he replied, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and moved up the bed, coming to rest against her side. She turned away on instinct, nestling her back to his chest and relaxing as he slid his arm around her waist. He kissed her neck once before pressing his face into her hair.

“So you’re keeping the baby then?” he asked, his voice muffled against her scalp.

Molly smiled. “Of course I am. There was never any doubt. You said it yourself,” she replied, wincing slightly at the memory of their harsh confrontation earlier in the day.

Sherlock squeezed her waist. “It wasn’t my place to say what I said,” he responded ruefully. “It’s no one’s place to say something like that. Especially someone who will never have a single clue as to what it’s like having a living thing invade their body.”

Molly burst out laughing. “You have quite the way with words sometimes, you know that?” she giggled. “You make it sound like I’m hosting a parasite.”

She felt him smile against her neck. “Well, it’s not so far off, is it?” he asked innocently. “A life form attaches itself to a host, feeds off of it’s essence, and grows at an alarming rate until it’s ready to be expelled.”

“Yes, and it continues to feed off of our combined essence for at least the next eighteen years,” Molly added with a smile. “THEN it’s truly ready to be expelled.”

“Speak for yourself, my parents didn’t kick me out until I was 25,” he replied.

“Twenty-five?!” Molly cried. “Good lord, your parents must have the patience of saints!”

“I’m the baby of the family. Mummy clung to that for as long as she could,” Sherlock answered with a shrug.

“You mean, for as long as she could stand it,” Molly corrected with a cheeky grin. “Which, apparently, is a quarter of a century. Quite impressive, actually.”

Sherlock gave her arse a playful swat, and she shrieked in mock protest. “I’m hoping you’re willing to break that record,” he countered, returning his hand to her lower belly and pulling her closer. “I’d like that very much,” he added quietly, nestling into her neck again.

Molly smiled contentedly. “Well, I’ll certainly try,” she replied softly. “As long as you promise to try, too.”

He gave her tummy a gentle squeeze. “I'll try. I promise," he murmured. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me two years to get this whole thing finished. No biggie. 
> 
> I wrote everything but the epilogue prior to series 4, so obviously, it is no longer canon-compliant. Personally, I don't think that's a bad thing, but YMMV.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, kind words, and encouragement while I worked through this two-year writer's block. You guys rock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, a suspect is caught in the act, and John Watson proves his usefulness. 
> 
> (8/10 Johntent)

It was just before midnight when the buzzing of Sherlock’s mobile woke them both.

“Whozzit?” Molly mumbled sleepily, rolling onto her back before opening her eyes. She peered at Sherlock’s face as it bathed in the blue glow of the mobile screen. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and squinted at the phone.

“John,” Sherlock answered, his voice rough with sleep and something else Molly couldn’t quite place.

“What’s wrong? “ she asked, alarm rising in from the pit of her stomach and shaking her into alertness.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock replied quickly. “He’s just on his way back from London, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”

Molly stared at him. “You’re hiding something,” she accused. “What did he really say?”

“I’m not hiding anything, I swear, ” Sherlock said, stroking Molly’s hair. “John is coming here shortly, and hopefully he’s bringing me the evidence I need to solve the case. If he did his job correctly, it will be all the evidence I need.” 

Molly blinked. “Wait, what? Really?” she asked, her heart skipping a beat. “What is it? The evidence, I mean. And how can you be so sure that it’s all you’ll need?” 

“While you were resting yesterday, I had a breakthrough. The package wasn’t delivered to you via post. It was delivered through St. Barts own internal post system.”

Molly looked at him, uncertainty in her eyes. “How can you tell?” she asked. “How do you know someone just didn’t break into my office and leave it on my desk? That seems more likely than someone going through the trouble of using the interoffice post.”

“The morgue is accessible only by key card, as you already know,” Sherlock began. “But what you may not know is that a digital log is kept of everyone who badges in and out. Once I realized that, I contacted Lestrade to pull the log to see who accessed the morgue between the hours of eight in the morning and noon, which is when the package was left. He came back with five names. Two of those names belong to you and your incompetent assistant, of course.”

Molly’s stared at him, breath baited. “And who were the other three?” she asked.

“Stephen Blakely, custodian; Andrew Marcheline, lab technician; and James Keating, volunteer courier, “ Sherlock listed off, cocking an eyebrow as he finished.

“Jim Keating. He’s that lovely older man who delivers the post,” Molly said as realization dawned.

“Exactly. Lestrade has already interviewed him, but unfortunately, Mr. Keating was unable to provide us with a description of who left the package in the post room. But he was able to inform us that a security camera was installed last year, due to a bizarre uptick in hospital postal theft. Go figure.”

Molly licked her lips excitedly. “So there may be footage of the person who left the package in the post room,” she replied.

“No, there’s _definitely_ footage of the person who left the package in the mail room, “ Sherlock corrected. “The security camera records and stores forty-eight hours of footage at a time. We are well within that window. John was granted access to review and acquire a copy of the security footage.“ 

“So who is it then? What did John say in his text?” Molly asked impatiently, her heart beating wildly.

Sherlock shook his head. “It wasn’t a text, it was an alert from his vehicle's GPS,” he explained. “Given the digital nature of the Moriarty message, it’s safe to assume that whomever is behind it is adept at hacking text messages. We agreed to cease texting for the time being.”

“So how can you be sure that he has everything you need?” Molly responded, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. 

He shrugged. “I can’t, I suppose. I’m just choosing to…have faith,” he said with a slight eye roll and wry smile.

Molly smiled. “Now _there’s_ something I never thought I’d hear. Sherlock Holmes talking about faith. Where’s the cold, hard logic in that?” she teased, poking him softly in the ribs.

Sherlock chuckled as he pressed a quick kiss to Molly’s forehead. “Just trying something new,” he replied. “I’ve been informed that some of my old ways of thinking produce less than desirable results at times.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and gently turned her back onto her side. “Now go back to sleep. You’re growing a human life, you need all the sleep you can get.”

 

* * *

 

About an hour later, after Molly had finally drifted back off to sleep, Sherlock was in the sitting room, fully dressed and anxiously awaiting his friend’s arrival. He paced back and forth until he finally heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside the tiny cabin.

“Sherlock, you need to see this,” John said breathlessly, bursting through the door and skipping the pleasantries. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the corner of the sofa. 

“Did you get it?” Sherlock asked anxiously.

John held up a small purple thumb drive, an unusual mixture of pride and unease on his face.

“I got it, “ he confirmed. “And…I don’t think you’re going to be happy with what you see.” He approached the kitchen table, twirling the drive between his fingers in a nervous fashion.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. His pulse quickened as he struggled to maintain a cool façade of control. “My happiness is irrelevant,” he said quickly. “If that footage contains the information I need, then it’s all that matters.” 

John exhaled his breath slowly and nodded. He inserted the thumb drive into the USB port on Sherlock’s laptop. A few keystrokes later, the screen was filled with a grainy, washed out video focused on a heavy metal door, covered in dings and scratches

John leaned over and dragged his finger across the laptop’s touchpad. The footage began to jump forward, images of people entering and exiting the postal room speeding across the screen. “This gets a whole lot more interesting at the thirty-three minute mark, “ he said, squinting at the video controls. He quickly clicked the touchpad as the counter hit thirty-two minutes and forty-five seconds. “Here it is,” he said, straightening and folding his arms across his chest.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry as the culprit finally appeared on screen. The dark hair, pinned back in an elaborate twist. The figure-hugging attire. The curvy physique.

Her identity was unmistakable. 

John watched Sherlock carefully. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Sherlock grimaced. “Of course I’m okay. Just...surprised.” He bent down and paused the footage. The familiar face froze on the screen, the twinkle in her eye practically mocking him. “Which I’m loathed to admit,” he added with a grumble.

John sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “You and me both,” he said wearily. “What are you going to do?”

Sherlock was already swinging his coat over his shoulders. “I’m going to have a little chat with our old friend,“ he replied sharply. He held his hand out. “Give me your keys.”

John looked at him in disbelief. “What are you – are you insane?” he exclaimed. “You can’t just ‘go have a chat’ with her by yourself. How do you even know where she is? I’m coming with you.”

Sherlock grunted. “No. I know exactly where she is, and she won’t talk if anyone else is there. Trust me. I know her.”

John snorted. “No, you _think_ you know her, but there’s security footage over here that says otherwise. You can’t go alone, it’s too dangerous.”

Sherlock extended his other arm, palm outstretched. “Okay, then give me your keys and your gun,” he replied impatiently. “John, I don’t have time to argue. She’ll have figured out that we’re on to her by now. I must move quickly.”

John stared back. “You need to think about the consequences here,” he said sharply. He jerked his head pointedly toward the tiny bedroom. “It’s not just about you anymore. You have a baby to think about, amongst other things.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Thank you, John, how would I ever remember these details if it weren’t for you,” he snapped. “Yes, I am aware that I have a child to think about. Which is precisely why I must go, alone, _now._ I need you to stay here and keep Molly safe.” He softened slightly. “John,” he pleaded. “I have a plan. Please. Trust me.”

John threw his hands up. “Fine!” he exclaimed. “I give up! As usual, I bloody give up.” He reached into his pocket for his keys, and slapped them into Sherlock’s waiting hand. “The gun is in the glove box,” he grumbled. “And for Chrissakes, try not to get yourself killed. Or anyone else for that matter.”

Sherlock nodded, his shoulders relaxing in relief. “Thank you, John,” he said as he headed out the door and into the chilly midnight air. He had a long drive ahead, and plenty of time to think about how this particular past mistake had come back to haunt him in the worst way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things. 
> 
> #1 - I know what you guys might be thinking. Stay with me, I promise it's worth it.  
> #2- Obviously, I've taken several liberties with the inner workings of St Barts interoffice mail system, as well as their badge system.  
> #3 - Yes, I'm aware that GPS can be hacked just as easily as text messages. So let's just headcanon that Mary and Mycroft have managed to block the GPS signal on John's car because they're awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising confrontation that is full of...surprises. Surprises all around.

Sherlock killed the lights of the Land Rover and eased it off to the right of the gravel drive. He peered over the dash at the cottage on the horizon – small and cozy, situated on a small cliff overlooking the sea. It was a tasteful and discreet hideaway for a woman who was anything but. The cottage appeared completely dark, both inside and out. The lack of a vehicle in the driveway seemed to indicate that no one was home, but Sherlock knew better.

He knew his presence was expected.

He turned the engine off and exited the vehicle, tucking John’s Sig Sauer pistol into his waistband. He slowly crept up the drive, careful not to make any noise. After all, even if his presence _was_ expected, he didn’t want to give his host too much of an advanced warning of his arrival. Where was the sport in _that?_

The cottage remained dark and silent, the sound of nearby crashing waves and an occasional gentle breeze the only soundtrack as he crept along to the side window. He carefully pressed his palms to the pane of glass and slowly pushed up, testing to see if it was unlocked. The window opened smoothly and quietly.

Sherlock hoisted himself over the sill gracefully, both feet hitting the floor with ease. He straightened and paused for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soft outlines of walls, furniture and a doorframe emerged into view. Sherlock reached into his waist and drew his weapon as he carefully crept through the doorway and into the main sitting area of the small cottage. 

He had barely set foot through the threshold when he heard the sharp, unmistakable _click_ of a gun being cocked. He spun quickly toward the sound, weapon extended, as the sitting area was suddenly flooded with light.

“SHERL!” Janine exclaimed, her smile bright as ever but her eyes cold, unrecognizable. “What a surprise! It’s good to see you.” In her right hand was a small silver pistol. Her left hand lingered on the light switch against the wall.

Sherlock glared at her over the nozzle of the Sig Sauer. “No need to lie, Janine. I think you’ve done enough of that for one lifetime,” he ground out, his heart thumping against his ribcage in spite of his best efforts. 

Janine threw her head back and released a throaty laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you, “ she replied with a cruel smile. “ _Do as I say, not as I do_ – is that what you meant, Sherl?”

Sherlock grimaced slightly and tightened his grip on the weapon. “I’m disappointed, Janine,” he responded coolly, changing the subject. “I never pegged you as the murder- and- mayhem type.”

“No, you pegged me as an idiot,” she responded cheerfully, gun still pointed at his head. “And who said anything about murder? There’s only one murderer in this room right now, and it’s not me.”

“I beg to differ. You can’t work for Moriarty not have some amount of blood on your hands,” Sherlock retorted, his finger dancing along side the trigger.

Janine paused for a moment, as if she were considering her options. Finally, she sighed and lowered her pistol. “Sit down, Sherl,” she said tiredly, gesturing toward an overstuffed floral settee.

Sherlock stared at her silently, his gun still raised and his finger still itching to pull the trigger.

Janine threw her head back and laughed again. “Sherlock Holmes, stop wavin’ that thing around like you know what you’re doing and _sit your arse down,_ ” she commanded, her Irish lilt thickening a bit. “You want answers and I want to go back to sleep, so let’s get on with it, yeah?”

Sherlock considered her for a moment longer before lowering his gun reluctantly.

“Atta boy,” she said with a smile as he slowly sat on the settee. She settled into the armchair across from him, removing the bullets from her revolver and lining them up on the side table.

“See?” she said, waving the unloaded gun in the air before placing it gently on the arm of the chair. “I’m not interested in hurtin’ you.” She relaxed into the cushions. “I’m also not an associate of James Moriarty. Never was.” 

“But you _are_ involved with him, at least posthumously. I’ve already deduced that you are at least partially responsible with broadcasting the Moriarty message to the entire country,” Sherlock countered.

Janine tilted her head. “I am?” she asked innocently. “How do you figure that?”

“Process of elimination,” Sherlock answered, leaning forward. “I had already suspected that the culprit was likely connected to Magnussen. Someone who had the same knowledge and access to the airwaves as he did. Seeing you on camera, delivering your little gift to Molly, was all the confirmation I needed.” Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Also, the small ‘I.O.U’ lapel pin you wore on your jacket the day you knew you’d be caught on video was a lovely, personal touch,” he finished, eyes flashing in anger and annoyance. “Wearing a sandwich board that read I DID IT would have been more subtle.”

Janine smiled. “And you just _hate_ that it’s me, don’t you?” she asked in delight. Sherlock glared at her in silence, and she broke into another round of giggles. “Oh, God, I’m sorry!” she said. She pressed her hand to her chest and caught her breath. “It’s just – I’m just _really_ enjoying this! I didn’t think I would, but I _am._ ”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and leaned back against the settee. “So of course that means you are responsible for broadcasting a threatening message on national airwaves, resulting in mass hysteria,” he continued, staring her down a severely as he could manage, all the while trying to tamp down the begrudging admiration he felt for this woman he had misjudged so poorly. He never liked playing the fool, but he also couldn’t help but give credit when credit was due.

Janine rolled her eyes. “Ugh, Sherl, do you have to be so damned _dramatic_ all the time?” she complained. “I think _mass hysteria_ is a little much. So a couple thousand people had minor heart attacks. I had to make it seem credible.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at that. “Make _what_ seem credible?” he asked, glowering. 

“That Moriarty, or at least one of his friends, meant business. It’s why I had that little gift delivered to Molly, too,” she explained. She had the decency to cringe slightly at the latter statement. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I know it scared her, but when you need to sell a lie, you’ve gotta pull out all the stops,” she said with a small shrug. “God’s honest truth - I’m really not interested in seeing anyone get hurt.”

“So what is this all for, then? More money? The tabloids aren’t interested in your little sex fantasies anymore?” Sherlock sneered. The temperature in the cottage was slowly creeping upward, the thickened air enveloping them in a lazy, uncomfortable embrace. He resisted the urge to tug his collar away from his neck, lest his host take any more pleasure in seeing him sweat.

Janine shrugged. “Maybe I’m just bored. Unemployment does have its drawbacks. Someone killed my boss, in case you hadn’t heard.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “You must have had help,” he countered. He smiled coldly as he went for her weak spot. “There’s no way a _personal assistant_ found a way to broadcast that message on every screen in Britain without some kind of aid,” he said, his voice dripping in condescension. Janine’s expression darkened, and he knew he had hit his mark.

She huffed out a quick, angry laugh, shaking her head in exasperation. “You actually have no idea how smart I am, do you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “Do you think a man like Magnussen would keep me under his thumb for sixteen years just to look at my pretty face?” She leaned forward in her chair, chin raised. “I wasn’t just his _P.A,”_ she said, with a faint hint of disgust. “I was in charge of his technical operations. “

Sherlock shrugged, fixing his face into a reasonable facsimile of boredom. “So what? Is that a delicate way of saying you were his own personal hacker?”

“If it makes you feel better to call it that, then yeah, “ she replied. She leaned back, crossing her legs demurely at the ankle. “Name the code, and I can crack it,” she said matter- of- factly. “Name an institution, and I probably broke their firewall with one hand.”

“I see. And what was the other hand doing?”

“Probably waitin’ for my nails to dry,” she laughed, mirthlessly. She straightened her posture, ever so slightly, her brown eyes pinning him in place, practically daring him to continue. 

Sherlock considered her silently for a beat, before launching into the question he knew he had to ask, despite knowing that he wasn’t going to care for the answer.

“How did you know Molly was pregnant?”

“I didn’t,” she replied quickly, almost apologetically. For the first time since their conversation began, Janine looked slightly uncomfortable. “He did, though. Magnussen.” She paused for a moment. “So did you, by the way. There’s no way you didn’t know.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look uncomfortable, which of course Janine noticed. “That takes a little of the shine off your ‘noble sacrifice’ now, doesn’t it?” she continued. “A baby on the way and you pull a stunt like that? It’s safe to say you failed your first test as a father.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock retorted. He shifted in his seat as he regained his composure. “Even Scotland yard would have been able to put the pieces together once Molly Hooper turned up with a dark haired, blue eyed child. A person like Magnussen would have put those pieces together much sooner. I never said my actions were noble, and I never said they were only for the Watsons,” he concluded, the hint of sorrow barely perceptible in his otherwise cold voice.

“Come off of it, Sherlock Holmes,” Janine said, exasperated. “You were motivated by the worst kind of indulgent self-loathing. The old ‘everyone would be better off without me’ murder-suicide.”

“Funny, I thought a murder-suicide usually ended with both parties dead. Yet here I am, surrounded by your ridiculous assumptions and equally ridiculous fascination with obnoxious floral patterns.”

“You were expecting them to shoot you. Don’t even try that bullshit with me.” Janine leaned forward, eyes hard and smile cold. “What you didn’t expect, however, was the lengths your older brother would go to keep you alive. Which is what he has probably always done, if I had to wager a guess.” She sighed in mock pity. “And that’s your biggest weakness. You always assume the people you love don’t love you back.”

Sherlock was silent. He had no comeback for that, and she knew it.

“Magnussen planned on giving you that rattle at Appledore, as a Christmas gift,” Janine continued. “Had it made specifically for the occasion. He was so proud of himself. That whole _I.O.U_ business was his always his idea, anyway. Jim Moriarty wasn’t as original as people gave him credit for,” she added mildly.

Sherlock felt his pulse jump, bounding relentlessly in his neck and temples. “You still haven't answered my question. How did Magnussen know?” he hissed through clenched teeth. 

“He had her flat bugged.” Janine answered. “Cameras and everything. Footage is saved on his hard drive, if you ever wanna take a look.” She gave him a saucy look and smiled. “And you said you were waiting for marriage,” she said with a wink. “I’m impressed, Sherl, though you’d think a man a smart as you would’ve used a rubber once in awhile.”

Sherlock swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “She was on birth control,” he countered weakly, even as he considered all the ways that particular line of protection could fail. 

Janine smiled sadly. “Yeah, she thought she was. He had the pills switched out. Wasn’t hard to do, really. Had someone knock into her on the tube. She spilled her bag, they helped her pick it up. Poor girl was so mortified to have a stranger hand her birth control pills that she didn’t question a thing.”

Sherlock fought to regain control of his breathing. “That still doesn’t explain how he knew she was pregnant,” he said evenly. The sitting room began to tilt beneath him, and it took all of his strength and willpower not to stand up and tear the whole fucking cottage apart with his bare hands.

“Cameras in the bathroom too, I’m afraid,” Janine replied.

Sherlock visibly recoiled.

“He was a bit of a weirdo, that one, sorry,” she explained apologetically. “She’d started with the morning sickness a tad early. Could be a sign of twins, by the way.” Janine shot him a sardonic smile. “Imagine that. Two Holmes babies in one go? Poor Molly will be in a mental institution before their first birthday.”

Sherlock’s mind whirled, struggling to make sense of this information while his anger and disgust reached unprecedented new levels. “But ….why?” he asked, unable to string together a more coherent sentence. “Why would he go through all that trouble…” Sherlock trailed off into silence.

“You mean, why would the world’s premiere blackmailer want Sherlock Holmes to have a child?” she asked, examining the tips of her manicure. “I would think that’s obvious. There is no greater pressure point than a child.” She looked up. “A man like Magnussen craves ammunition. The more he has on someone, the better. That, and he was a perverted lunatic.”

“And what did he have on you?” Sherlock demanded, finding his voice again. His curiosity began to rise again. “With your purported level of skill, you could have made a fortune in freelance work. ” He leaned back and pressed his fingers against his lips. “Whatever he had, it _must_ have been big for you to stay.”

Janine nodded, offering him a small smile that didn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. “The biggest,” she agreed, rising from her seat and sauntering over to a tall, white bookcase filled with various knickknacks, photos, and the occasional book. She reached for an item on the top shelf and returned to the settee, dropping a pink, cloth-covered scrapbook in Sherlock’s lap.

He stared at her questioningly.

“Go on then,” she said, sinking back into her chair with a small sigh. “Have at it.”

Sherlock slowly opened the album to the first page. A black and white photograph of a newborn, the child no more than a few hours old, swaddled in hospital linens, stared back at him. The edges of the photo paper were slightly yellowed, indicating the picture was at least fifteen years old, by his best estimate.

His heart picked up its pace as he flipped through the scrapbook. Each photo was carefully mounted on cheerful background of pinks and purples, and showed the same child- a girl - through the progression of time. Primary school portraits, snapshots from birthday parties, and, most alarmingly, surveillance photos – all documenting the pretty, dark-haired girl as she grew from an infant into a stunning young teenager, with piercing blue eyes and a smile that was an exact copy of her mother’s.

“I named her Emily,” Janine said, aiming for indifference, though she couldn’t quite catch the soft hitch in her voice on the last syllable. “But the people who adopted her call her Fionnoula. Pretentious pricks,” she added with an eye roll. “They aren’t even Irish.”

“How old were you when you–“ 

“Seventeen,” Janine cut in, her smile small and sad. She shifted in her seat. “Having political career and a pregnant teenage daughter didn’t mix well for my father, hence the adoption. I tried to hide the pregnancy as long as I could…but you can only blame the biscuits for so long, you know?”

She smoothed a lock of dark hair off her face and swallowed. “And when the baby’s father is the Danish ambassador to Ireland…it’s hard to hide it from someone like Charles Magnussen,” she said quietly. She looked at Sherlock and gave him a tight smile. “Suddenly, Magnussen not only owned the Danish embassy, he owned my father. And my father’s IRA connections.”

“And you,” Sherlock added quietly.

Janine shrugged. “Ah, I was just a bonus. A doll for his collection. The fact that I turned out to be a bloody computer genius was just sheer luck.” 

She gazed at the scrapbook in his hands, pain flickering briefly in her eyes. “He made that for me,” she said, her voice small and distant. “Added a page every few months. He made it out to be such a lovely, thoughtful gesture, but we both knew it was to keep me in line.” 

She took a small breath and looked up at him, not with the merry gaze of the cheerful, confident woman Sherlock thought he knew, but with the eyes of a scared and broken teenaged girl. “He made sure I was aware that he knew where she was, at all times,” she continued. “And he made sure I understood that he’d have no problem hurting her.”

Sherlock felt a stab of pity mixed in with his growing confusion. “But Magnussen is dead. You’re child is safe, and you’re free. So _why?”_ he implored. “ _Why_ are you doing this if it isn’t for money, or revenge? You can’t be _that_ bored.”

Janine stared at him for a few moments, her chocolate-colored eyes searching his face. When she spoke again, it was to her folded hands on her lap. “I heard about your mission,” she said. Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. “Intercepting MI6 transmissions is a casual hobby of mine, “ she offered, by way of explanation, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. “Anyway, I thought maybe I could do something to help. Maybe causin’ a little ruckus would be enough to put Serbia on hold for awhile.”

Sherlock could only stare at her, stunned. “You did this…for me? “ he said incredulously. He faltered for a moment. “Why…after what I did to you…” he continued, his voice trailing off to a heavy silence.

Janine giggled. “Oh, Sherl, my love, do you _really_ think I didn’t know what you were up to?” she asked with a grin. “ Of course I knew. I knew what Mary was up to, too, which is why I let both of you ‘play’ me,” she continued, using air quotes for emphasis.  “I figured the odds were good that _one_ of you would manage to kill him. Could have done it myself, but I don’t like gettin’ my hands dirty.“ She sighed and went back to examining her nails. “But you know what I really like about you, Sherlock Holmes?” she asked merrily. “You go all out,” she answered for him. “Misjudging me, misjudging Mary, misjudging Magnussen…when you fuck up, you _really_ fuck up.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, so I’ve been told,” he replied wryly. He narrowed his eyes. “With that being said, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m having a hard time believing that saving me from a certain death was your only motivation.” He smiled grimly. “Given my propensity for ‘fucking up’ lately, I’m only erring on the side of caution with this one.”

Janine suddenly stood and stretched her arms over her head, yawning pointedly. “Well, it wasn’t my _only_ motivation. The opportunity to outsmart you was also pretty alluring,” she said with a grin. Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle softly at that. _Touché._

“Look…I did it because I wanted to,” she said, her demeanor sobering. “I’ve spent sixteen years helping a horrible man do horrible things. Maybe I’m tryin’ to atone for that. And maybe because you freed me from the person who held me prisoner for nearly half my life, even if that wasn’t one of your intentions.” She smiled as she leaned down, reaching out her hand and ruffling his curls. “And besides, the world’s a more interesting place with you in it, Sherlock Holmes,” she said affectionately. She turned away from him and began making her way back to her bedroom. 

Janine stopped just before the she reached the threshold of door. “Plus…I didn’t like the idea of him separating another child from their parent,” she said without turning around. “He’s dead. He shouldn’t have that power anymore.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled softly. “I can keep this going for awhile. The Moriarty thing,” she offered. “I won’t cause too much trouble…just enough to keep you busy. It’ll be our secret.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Thank you,” he said. It was the best he could manage, given the complete absence of a logical response in the face of this completely illogical situation.

Janine nodded once. “You’re welcome. Now, don’t go fucking everything up again, all right?” she said. “I’m a one woman operation here. There’s only so much I can do.”

Sherlock offered her a half-smile. “I’ll try my best to keep your workload manageable,” he replied, nodding once as he rose from the settee. He shifted his weight awkwardly and stared at the floor. “I don’t know how to repay you,” he admitted. “Especially since I’m not quite sure I deserve the loan in the first place.” 

Janine smiled. “Just enjoy every moment you get with that baby,” she replied quietly. “Or babies,” she added wickedly, her smile widening. “Like I said, could be twins….”

Sherlock laughed. “She’s not measuring large enough for that,” he replied. “ I can assure you, it’s only one baby.”

Janine rolled her eyes. “Ah, that’s right. Sherlock Holmes, gynecology expert. How could I forget?” she teased. He couldn’t quite keep the flush from his cheeks, and she laughed in delight. “Tell you what – if I’m right, and if it’s twins, then you have to name one after me. That’s my only stipulation,” she stated, grinning widely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And if they’re twin boys?” he asked, the side of his mouth quirking into a half-smile.

“Then it looks like you’ll have to redefine gender norms, won’t you?” Janine answered lightly. She started to step through the doorway, and then paused again. She turned to face him one last time. 

“Just be good to her,” she said meaningfully. “And be good to your child. Those are my real terms.” She gave him one last smile. “ Just be… _good._ Okay? Fair enough?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “Fair enough”

“Then it’s a deal,” she said. Her smile, though still bright, had taken on a bittersweet quality. “Good night, Sherlock Holmes,” she said softly.

With that, she finally entered her bedroom and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt there was more than meets the eye to Janine ( even if TPTB didn't), and I wanted to give her a story that carried some weight and also made sense to me. I always wondered what kind of "dirt" CAM had on Janine, and as soon as the credits rolled on HLV, this became my headcanon.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven months later, and everything is as it should be.

“Oh god, I almost forgot how little they are!” Mary exclaimed, as she counted the baby’s fingers with glee.

“For the love of God, Mary, yours isn’t even six months old yet. Don’t tell me motherhood has already robbed you of the last of your brain cells, “ Sherlock replied, though he couldn’t manage to keep the smile off his face.

“Oh, hush, you bastard,” Mary retorted as she stretched her hands out, silently seeking permission to cradle the squirming bundle in Molly’s arms.

“And really, just because I’ve yet to marry her mother, there’s no need to call my child a bastard,” Sherlock continued from his seat next to Molly’s hospital bed.

Molly handed the child over to Mary, then promptly grabbed a small stuffed bunny and hurled it at Sherlock’s face. “You stop that!” she admonished, though she was laughing. “Leave poor Mary alone!”

Mary raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Yeah, leave me alone!” she echoed, bouncing the baby as she spoke. She turned to Molly and sighed. “It’s all right, Molly,” she said sweetly. “That’s his bruised ego talking. He can’t handle the fact that I saved his life at the aquarium last month.”

Sherlock snorted. “You did no such thing,” he replied, still rubbing his cheek where the stuffed bunny had struck. “There was no way that Norbury woman was going to fire that gun.”

Mary stared at him pointedly. “If I had let you continue that _exceptionally_ cruel deduction of yours, she _definitely_ would have,” she exclaimed. She smiled at him wickedly. “And I can’t say I would have blamed her.”

“John, will you kindly remove my daughter from your wife’s cold, unfeeling grasp?” Sherlock called out as John entered the hospital room, Rosie in one arm and a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. “Infants are highly susceptible to extremely low temperatures. The risk for hypothermia is too great.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “John, save me from these two, please,” she complained through barely suppressed giggles. 

John grinned as he placed the flowers on the bedside table. “Ah, try as I might, I’m afraid there’s no stopping them,” he said, hoisting Rosie to his opposite hip and bending forward to plant a kiss on Molly’s forehead. “We’ll just have to commiserate and hope for the best.” He turned toward Mary and peered down at the baby in her arms. “Well, I guess there’s no need for paternity test here,” he said, eyebrows raised. “This child is clearly a Holmes.”

Molly groaned. “I know, it’s not fair,” she pouted good -naturedly. “Forty weeks of physical torture, carrying that child, and she comes out looking exactly like him!”

Sherlock smiled. “The Holmes genes are exceptionally dominant,” he replied with a lazy shrug. “It can’t be helped.”

Rosie squealed and reached for the baby in Mary’s arms, managing to catch the corner of the swaddling blanket before John could intervene. “Rosie agrees,” John said with a smile, gently wresting the fabric away from her chubby little fist. “See? She’s trying to get the upper hand early on. It’s a good strategy.”

“So does this genetically superior creature have a name yet?” Mary asked cheerfully, rocking the baby back and forth.

Molly looked at Sherlock pointedly, eyebrows raised. He nodded once, a motion of assent, and Molly smiled.

“Her name is Emily,” Molly replied softly. “Emily Martha.”

Mary squealed softly. “ I love it!” she exclaimed. “Martha for Mrs. Hudson, right?”

Sherlock looked at Mary with feigned confusion. “Mrs. Hudson’s first name is Martha?” he asked. “Really?”

Molly swatted at him. “I’m running out of things to throw at you!” she grumbled, searching her bed linens for another projectile.

Sherlock put his hands in the air. “Okay, okay!” he cried. “I’ll stop, I’m sorry.” He turned his attention back toward Mary. “Yes, ‘Martha’ for Mrs. Hudson, “ he said with a boyish grin. “It’s honestly the least I could do for the poor woman.”

John watched Sherlock curiously. “And ‘Emily’?” he asked, peering at his friend, who was beginning to look noticeably uncomfortable in his seat. “Who’s that for?”

“Just a name I always loved,” Molly jumped in quickly. She glanced at Sherlock, and he silently thanked her with his eyes. She shot him a quick smile, and continued. “Yeah, I had a friend who loved that name too, and it…well, it just felt right,” she explained, blindly reaching for Sherlock’s hand and giving it a quick, comforting squeeze. 

Mary grinned at the pink-faced infant who was beginning to squirm and fuss in earnest. “Well, Emily Martha, I can assure you this – your life will never be boring,” she cooed, leaning down to hand the tiny bindle back to Molly. She turned toward John and plucked Rosie from his arms. “We’ll let you three be,” she said, inching toward the door. “That baby looks hungry, and it’s John’s night to clean the kitchen anyway.” John made a noise of mild distress, but didn’t protest as the Watsons waved their goodbyes and left the room.

Molly waited until the door latched shut before lowering the neckline of her nursing vest and guiding Emily to her breast. The baby rooted aimlessly for several seconds before finally latching to her mother’s nipple with determined ferocity. Molly grimaced. “Yiiiikkkkes, that hurts,” she said, wincing. She traced the outline of her daughter’s nose with one fingertip.  “Good thing you’re cute, kiddo. And Auntie Mary’s right – at least you will never be bored. I think that’s probably the _only_ thing we can assure you,” she replied, her gentle laugh mingling with the sound of the baby’s greedy gulps.

“And that I will always be good, ” Sherlock jumped in suddenly, with a bit more emotion than he had intended. Molly looked up at him curiously. Sherlock cleared his throat. “I can assure her that I will be good to her, and you, always,” he said simply.

Molly watched him carefully. “Just promise you’ll try,” she whispered, echoing the words she had said to him at the very beginning, a veritable lifetime ago when no one, not even the great Sherlock Holmes, could have deduced the outcome of that fateful night. That they would end up _here_ , in this place, surrounded by so much love and acceptance and _peace_.

Sherlock pressed his lips to Molly’s forehead. “I don’t promise to try,” he murmured against her skin. “I just _promise_. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a weird way, I have to thank Moftiss for TST, because if they hadn't written Mary out the way that they did, I wouldn't have been motivated to finish this story. 
> 
> A big thank you to o0katiekins0o for her mad beta-ing and encouraging skills :)
> 
> Thank all of you for sticking with me. I'm not sure I deserved all the kudos and wonderful comments that you guys gave me, but I sure am glad you did :)

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work comes from the lyrics of David Gray's "Fugitive", which I'm nearly 20000065% positive was written about HLV. Pretty sure.
> 
> I also urge you to listen to "February Seven" by the Avett Brothers in it's entirety and drown yourself in massive amounts of TRF and HLV Sherlolly feels.


End file.
